


Nevertheless, She Persisted

by AJadeLion



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Coming of Age, Gen, Minor Character Death, Multi, Some angst, approximently canon compliant, everyone who isn't Ingrid is there but isn't a big focus, grief and passing mentions of borderline suicidal mindset, of sorts, some level of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 16:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJadeLion/pseuds/AJadeLion
Summary: Ingrid, ages 6 to 23. She cuts her hair and cuts her hair and cuts her hair...Perhaps, more importantly, she lives, learns, grieves and grows.A collection of moments, and haircuts from various points in Ingrid's life.





	Nevertheless, She Persisted

**Author's Note:**

> I would not say I'm satisfied with how this turned out but there are definitely parts I grew attached to and so, here I am, pushing it out into the world. 
> 
> I, of course, have more thoughts and feelings about Ingrid and what's in her head that I wasn't able to get out here but who knows maybe next time in 7 years. 
> 
> My brain: try this repetitive structure  
Me: why?  
My brain: it's artsy  
Me: I don't believe you but okay

Ingrid watches. She watches her mother cut her brother’s hair. She watches as her brothers squirm despite their mother’s repeated patient pleas to stay still. She counts as the promised ten minutes turn into twenty and then maybe thirty, but that’s about as high as she can count. 

She’s six years old. She knows how to wield a sword and she’s starting to learn the lance. Soon her dad is going to give her a bow too. She’s heard time and time again that patience is a virtue but she’s about ready to take control of her own fate.

It isn’t fair that she’s been shoved to the end of the line. That both her young and older brothers get to go before her because their mother insisted that their shorter hair makes it quick and easy to cut. Despite her mother’s experienced hands, nothing about this looks quick and/or easy. 

She never asked to have long hair. She’s heard it’s supposed to be lucky. Her grandmother says that when she was born with a full head of blonde hair, they knew she was going to be a lucky child. That theory was seemingly confirmed when it was announced that the baby bore a Minor Crest of Daphnel. 

Ingrid doesn’t understand much about crests but she knows that hers is a large part of what sets her apart from her brothers. That it’s the reason that the maid always fusses over her hair and dress whenever the Fraldarius convoy comes through. That it means she’s been trusted to carry on their family. Everyone knows she can do it. They’ve known since the day she was born with that lucky golden hair. 

It’s a lot to put on her hair. Her father is so proud of her. Proud of his special daughter with her pretty hair and precious crest. He loves her so much it’s almost scary. She doesn’t really get it. Get the fuss. It’s her hair. She should be allowed to chew on it when she reads and wear the flowers that Felix carefully weaves into her braid. 

Her favorite thing that ever happens with her hair is when she wakes up early and her mother, done with her morning chores will carefully and methodically plait Ingrid’s hair in a way that matches the braids she does in Camilla’s mane. 

One of Camilla’s half-sisters has recently foaled and that young filly has been promised to Ingrid. She can’t wait to have a horse of her own. Presently her impatience about the horse is only matched by her impatience about her haircut. 

She’s not a baby anymore. It’s time to take things into her own hands. 

Her grandmother gifted her a sewing kit for her birthday. Complete with a pair of scissors. She’s watched her mother work on her brothers’ hair for a while now. How hard can it really be?

Ingrid cuts her hair.

(It’s a disaster. The scissors are far too small and dull to cut through the middle of her ponytail. Her best estimate at even sides turns out to be anything but. Her poor mother nearly faints when she walks in the washroom. Once she takes a few deep breaths, however, the color starts to return to her cheeks and her mouth curls into what Ingrid can only describe as a proud smile. As her mother’s hand squeezes her shoulder, Ingrid looks at her own uneven handiwork and is filled with a matching sense of pride. She’ll learn. She’ll grow. She’ll get better. But she had to start somewhere.)

Ingrid tugs. She tugs at her skirt. She tugs at her sleeves. This is the fifth time this year that she came home from lessons with uniform mussed. At least this time she wasn’t also covered in mud. She’s nine years old so she knows she should know better. Her father’s tired sigh as she crept past his office told her that he expects more of her as well. 

It’s not like she means to wreck her clothing. She would never go out of her way to destroy her uniform. She knows they lack the resources to replace it every time it gets torn or stained and repairing it takes time and energy that could be devoted to other things. 

In fact, her mother, the Countess herself is now the one who repairs Ingrid’s clothes, unwilling to push such a task on the maids when Ingrid will inevitably tear it again.  
Her mother clicks her tongue, a verbal nudge to get Ingrid to stop tugging at the fabric so she better exam her handiwork. As per usual, the stitches are small, neat and even. Despite not spending much time sewing, Lady Galatea remains skilled at it as she does all things. 

But even with her best efforts, the long straight shadow of the tear running up her entire left thigh, where Ingrid got caught on the fence remains. It joins the small arc near her right shoulder where Felix got too close with his blade. It joins the faded stain on her back from the time she won the impromptu triple jump competition by landed completely in the mud puddle. It joins the collection of other patches and repair jobs that come from incidents that Ingrid has already forgotten. 

They litter her entire uniform like the scars that she’s already collecting on her body from her training. But unlike her scars, which she bears with pride, after all, she’s tougher for each one she earns, these scars on her clothes make her feel like a failure. They remind her of all the times she’s forgotten who she is. Forgotten her status, forgotten her responsibilities, forgotten everything her parents and teachers ask her to be. She just acts and now her uniform sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s uncanny how good everyone’s eye for this kind of thing is. 

But she’s learning. All things considered, she likes school and when she’s not in trouble, her instructors praise her for being a fast learner. So she can be better. She will be better. That’s what her books are telling her. One day she’s going to be a knight and none of her torn up clothes will matter. 

“Alright,” The her mother says, pulling Ingrid from her thoughts, “You’re presentable. Now go put that uniform away before your blazer ‘spontaneously’ catches on fire again. Dinner should be ready in half an hour.” 

The Countess smiles as she watches her daughter’s face light up at the mention of food. Ingrid takes off down the hall towards her quarters. There’s a pair of her brother’s pants that she saved from being scrapped just waiting for her. The have mismatching patches on the knees and they’re too big around her waist so she has to hold them up with a belt that she snagged from her father’s abandoned things. Even so, if she could get permission she would wear them to school every day. 

As she arrives in her room, Ingrid resumes tugging at her uniform. Technically it’s ready to be worn tomorrow but it still feels wrong. Like she’s wearing someone else’s clothes. More than once, she’s contemplated taking a pair of scissors to her skirt but she knows that the scolding she would get for it wouldn’t be worth the little bit of freedom. 

But perhaps there is a different change she can make with the scissors. 

Ingrid cuts her hair.

(She takes a fist full of hair, takes a deep breath and cuts. For an amateur on her first attempt at cutting bangs, they turn out remarkably bang-like. Maybe she’s due for something good because she looks in the mirror and she likes it. It’s far from perfect but she’s never claimed to be perfect herself. The clothes are old. The haircut is new. The girl wearing them is somewhere in between. She’s ready to march on.)

Ingrid observes. She’s eleven and she’s already sick of weddings but that doesn’t stop her from taking her duties as a junior bridesmaid very seriously. Her aunt Astrid has been waiting to marry Helena for years now. Ingrid isn’t about to let anything bad happen. She watches the dance floor with a careful eye. 

“Greer. Care for a dance?” 

Ingrid startles. Few people talk to a kid at a wedding and the few people she would be interested in talking to aren't in attendance. Or so she thought. After all, there’s only one person who she allows to call her Greer. “ Glenn! I didn’t know you would be here.” 

Glenn shows his hands, palms up in a casual gesture, “Helena is an old instructor of mine. A friend now really. I wouldn’t miss it.” 

Ingrid eyes a new scar down Glenn’s left cheek. He’s not quite 15 but there are rumors that the king will knight him within the year. Perhaps Glenn has heard these rumors and that’s why he’s hardly seen doing anything apart from training with Dimitri these days. Or maybe he’s really that good. She forces a smile that she hopes is a passing attempt at the both polite and playful smile that her etiquette coach has been drilling with her, “Dimitri let you out of training?”

Glenn stifles a chuckle and chews on his bottom lip before carefully answering, “Sasha might be a prince but he’s not a tyrant.”

Ingrid, briefly forgetting her lessons on how to be ladylike, crosses her arms over her chest and firmly points out, “That’s not what you were saying when he beat you six times in a row last month.” 

Glenn seems to realize that there’s no point in arguing that and instead tips his head in consideration of Ingrid before him, “You don’t seem that scared of the future King of our country.” 

It’s a funny thought. And not really wrong. As much as adores and respects Dimitri, as much as she wants to be his friend and loyal knight, she’s never once been scared of him. It’s never even crossed her mind. “Maybe because I can actually disarm him with a sword.” 

“My baby brother says the same thing but I think we both know that’s a lie. You’ll have to show me your moves. Can’t have the Crown Prince thinking I’m taking it easy on him.” Glenn swallows the hint of bitterness that has slipped into his tone and forces his smile to return, “So, about that dance?” 

“I’m not much of a dancer.” The couples maneuvering the crowded dance floor seem impossibly coordinated. Ingrid knows how to react to any kind of attack on the training pitch, but performing a specific set of steps in a specific order? The task always seems to destroy the connection between her mind and body. 

“Neither am I.” 

The music comes to a lull between songs and Ingrid sighs, giving in, “Just the one dance?” 

“Just the one.” Glenn confirms, guiding Ingrid into a recently vacated space on the dance floor. 

The music resumes and Ingrid makes a mental note to thank the goddess for making it a waltz. They rise and fall together and for once, Ingrid doesn’t feel unsteady on the dance floor. 

There’s an oddly familiar sense of belonging she gets from resting her arms on top of Glenn’s. She’s still a child and a far cry off from ready for marriage. There are still days where she can’t imagine she’ll ever be ready for marriage. But right here, right now, she knows that if she does get married, and she will, because she owes that to her family, she’s really glad it’s going to be Glenn. 

His hand presses firmly on her back, guiding her under their lifted arms. Ingrid places her feet carefully and makes sure that, just as she was taught her head is the last thing to turn, whipping around all at once. 

As if struck by something, Glenn stumbles to the side, taking Ingrid with him. It takes her a couple of seconds to realize that something did hit him and that the something was her hair. Her loose hair flying through the air and right into his face. As soon as the realization hits, she stops dancing. 

The couples all around them continue to sway and rise and fall and Glenn guides Ingrid to the safety of the edge of the dance floor. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes for the third time in ten seconds. If she wasn’t so embarrassed she’d be watching the dance floor, observing the women waltz without accidentally assaulting their partners. 

“Don’t worry about it. You just caught me by surprise is all.” 

It caught Ingrid by surprise as well. She isn’t used to wearing her hair down. It feels less dense and heavy than it does braided but it’s equally if not more unwieldy. “Ah.” She says, stopping short of offering any excuses. She should just avoiding dancing. 

“You basically have a weapon on your head, eh?”

She attempts to smooth her runway hair back down into submission, “It makes a better whip when it’s braided.” 

Glenn chuckles, “I bet. You’ve got a lot of it.”

Ingrid hasn’t had anyone look at her with this much genuine amusement and curiosity in ages. Courage swells in her chest, “I’d like to keep it just past my shoulders but until my mother lets me cut it I have to settle for having built-in weaponry.” 

“Let’s you cut it?” 

“She thinks it looks better this way.” 

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Glenn’s hand brushes Ingrid’s bangs back, “I’ve always thought people look best when they’re comfortable enough to fight.” 

Ingrid fights the hopeless battle against the blush working its way across her cheeks. She spends the rest of the night glued to Glenn’s side as they go back to avoiding the dance floor with the expertise of practiced professionals. 

She barely says her goodnights to her aunts before she’s bonding back towards the room she’s staying in. Her hair trails in the night wind, a constant reminder of the conversation she had with her fiance. 

The door closes behind her. 

Ingrid cuts her hair.

(She’s still in this constricting dress trying to be someone she’s not. But cutting off the bottom inches of her hair instantly takes her mind off of that. She’s still terrified about her future but the weight Glenn lifted stays off as her hair falls to the floor. She doesn’t have to wield extra weapons when she feels good enough to be her own person. Someday she’s going to serve her Kingdom and she’s going to look and feel good doing it.)

Ingrid sprints. She springs from the ground with every step, the action more natural than it’s ever been. Somewhere behind her three pairs of footsteps struggle to keep up. Forty of the most talented cadets in the country broken into ten teams to compete in this prestigious competition and she’s stuck with these idiots. 

She’s been teamed up with three boys who took one look at her and counted her out. Who, with no evidence assumed that they’re stronger, faster and smarter than her. Who never consider how she’s always had to prove herself twice over. Who probably haven’t wanted to be knights half as long as she has. 

So she wasn’t going to miss her window to spring them into the lead. The first team that makes it to the hidden finish line is crowned champion. The rules are as simple as that. Find your way through. Ingrid saw the trail and she took off. No waiting for instructions or directions. Respect is earned, not owed and none of her teammates have done anything to earn her respect.

She misses _her_ idiots. Sure, they’re thorns in each other’s sides and constantly finding themselves in a world of trouble. But at the end of the day, she loves them and they love her. They all love each other and she can’t imagine it ever being any other way. 

There is no love lost between Ingrid and her teammates. She’s heard what they say about her. That the prince takes pity on her. That she’s only worth anything because she’s part of a high profile engagement. Attacks on her character and far worse. 

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Not when she knows where the goal is and none of them do. People have been wrong about her before. They’ll continue to be wrong about her. It doesn’t matter. She knows better. 

“Hey slow down. We’re a team.” 

Ingrid forces a pleasant expression because it’s the polite thing to do. It’s the Bigger Person thing to do and that’s who she wants to be. It’s who she’s trying to be no matter how hard it gets. They sure hadn’t felt like a team when she’d been forced to make her own way across the icy river after the guide rope had conveniently snapped before she could reach it. But sure, a team. 

“I’m very sorry. I got over-excited. I was under the impression we wanted to win.” 

Ingrid doesn’t care about the gaudy statuette every member of the winning team is presented with. It’s just another thing that will sit in her room cluttering the space. She sees no need for it. However, winning such a prestigious competition brings other prizes as well and some of those might be money or food, things that her territory still desperately needs.

Beyond her desire to show her ability to provide for House Galatea while training to be a knight, Ingrid still really wants to prove these boys wrong. She’s playing nice but her patience is starting to wear thin and she gets the impression that even her thickheaded teammates are starting to see through her facade. 

Their self-appointed leader clearly senses the tension as well and makes a truly remarkably tackless attempt at playing peacemaker, “Just, take it easy okay? People are going to spot your hair flapping around from the other side of the forest.” 

The smallest of their ragtag group of idiots ignores the imaginary hierarchy and steps past his so-called leader and comes dangerously close to putting a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder, “Lay off her. She has to keep her hair long otherwise how will her fiance remember she’s a girl once she puts on all the knight’s armor?” 

The thin layer of patience snaps. Ingrid digs around in her belt “It’s a knight’s duty to put others' needs above one’s own. If my hair is such a distraction, I apologize.” She holds the dagger up to the middle of her braid “I assure you it won’t happen again.”

Ingrid cuts her hair. 

(It turns out hacking off a braid with a hunting dagger doesn’t result in the most elegant of hair cuts. The horrified gaps from her parents are overshadowed by the unbridled laughter of her boys, _her idiots_, as she retells the story with her championship trophy hugged tight to her chest. They lounge on the top of the hill, laughing as their worries seem miles away. It’s a memory she holds onto for years as one of her last happy days. She can’t help but wonder if the others do as well.)

Ingrid cleans. It’s more productive than pacing. Or at least it’s better at giving the illusion of productivity. She’s been scrubbing at her dresser for the last 20 minutes and it remains just as stubbornly shiny as ever. She’s 13 years old and completely responsible for keeping her own space clean which has been going pretty well. Which is great whenever she isn’t full of the desire to stress clean. 

For the better part of the last week, Felix has been going on and on, rambling anxiously about everything from his breakfast to his brother. His constant fidgeting is starting to get to Ingrid and she’s starting to believe him that something is wrong. 

The air feels thick and heavy, an intangible sense of wrongness present in every breath. She’s waiting for something that she knows she doesn’t want but knows she’s powerless to stop. News of whatever is making the people in the streets so uneasy will reach them soon enough. 

She drags herself away from the dresser and turns her attention to dusting the mirror. 

Without ceremony or audible sound, the mirror cracks. Just splits and comes apart into two clean, remarkably even halves in Ingrid’s hands. Legend says that a broken mirror is never accompanied by good news. But those are just stories. Childish things she reads to pass the time. 

Two mirrors are just as good as one. Even if they are half the size of the original. She catches her reflection in one of her new mirrors. The ends of her hair are starting to split and she has runaways that refuse to stay tucked in her braids. Perhaps it is not her room that needs cleaning, after all, it’s her. 

It’s easy to find her scissors and she turns her attention back to glass. She’s so focused on lining her hair up with the scissors that she doesn’t hear her father enter the room. 

“Ingrid,” His voice is so low and serious that Ingrid immediately knows that whatever it is. It’s bad. Beyond incredibly bad.“Ingrid, there’s been an incident with the royal convoy.” 

He continues speaking but all Ingrid hears is white noise. She feels the cold blade of the scissors slip and nick the delicate skin beneath her ear. It’s the last thing she feels before she stumbles and crashes onto her bed. 

Ingrid doesn’t cut her hair. 

(She doesn’t notice that she’s still clinging to the pair of scissors. She doesn’t even notice when she rolls over onto them, allowing their metal to jab into her side. There’s already a dagger through her heart. What’s a little more pain?)

Ingrid rolls over. It’s been five weeks. Five weeks since she last left her room for more than a handful of minutes. Five weeks since she’s held anything that resembled a pleasant conversation. Five weeks since she collapsed in on herself and waited to die. 

It’s not just her. There is no comfort in the world. The King is dead and the Kingdom is in chaos. Everyone she knows has lost people they care about. Everyone’s lives have been forever changed. Even with her windows and door latched shut and locked, the anger and grief from the streets are palpable in the air. 

She wants to care. She wants so badly to care about all the pain and turmoil in the world. Wants to be able to care about Felix who lost a brother. About Dimitri who lost everyone and everything he cared about. But her insides are too hollow and bitter and her capacity for human empathy seems to have withered away. 

Her family was sympathetic for the first week. Then it was back to business as usual. No one has ever accused the people of Faerghus of being excessively affectionate.  
Sylvain is the only person she talks to, and ‘talks to’ is a generous description. He comes by at least twice a week to gently needle her into eating real food, into standing up even if she doesn’t leave the room. He gracefully holds one-sided conversations about the state of the stables and tactfully doesn’t mention the riots in the streets. 

She suspects that he would stay longer if it weren’t for the fact that he’s trying to do the same thing for two other people. Sylvain has fallen into a routine, traveling from territory to territory to territory, offering whatever comfort he can. 

The place in her chest where her heart used to beat seizes when Ingrid thinks too hard about how dangerous it is right now for Sylvain to be spending the majority of his time on the road. She’d beg him to stop but if there’s one person she thinks can possibly pull them through this, it’s Sylvain. And he’s never been one to quit when there’s a chance he can help his friends. 

She hates all of it. She feels bad for being selfish and she feels selfish for feeling bad for feeling selfish and she feels bad for feeling- she just wants it to stop. 

“Morning,” Sylvain says, even though the light coming in through her window tells Ingrid that it’s almost certainly closer to afternoon. “Your stiff brush was getting worn out so uh, consider this a gift of sorts.” 

When Ingrid doesn’t make to move towards his outstretched hand, Sylvain instead joins her on the bed. “Ouch, what the-?” He shifts his weight and digs out a metal object. Ingrid blinks. The scissors she’d been clutching when her father broke the news. She’s been sharing a bed with them for all of this time. 

She tests her throat “Thank you. My hair is too long.” It was too long over ago when she’d first to cutting it and it’s only grown since then. It’s wild and tangled and almost more obnoxious than it’s ever been. 

She takes both the new brush and the pair of scissors in her hands and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. She takes the chilly walk across the room over to the dresser. She picks up one half of the broken mirror. 

Ingrid cuts her hair. 

(Her hand still trembles slightly. Everything she does these days feels out of practice and awkward but there’s only way to brush off the rust. Trimming off the most damaged parts of her hair is far from transformative. She’s still tired and angry but at least she’s trying. It’s not easy, but at least she’s trying.)

Ingrid reads. She receives a lot of mail. In fact, it’s felt like she’s lived three straight years of receiving a mix of condolences and marriage proposals. It might not be knightley but she doesn’t respond to any of them. However, this envelope is different. The ink on the addressing is smudged almost beyond recognition and there’s a faint stained ring that appears to have been left by a teacup. 

__  
Dearest Ingrid,  
How are you? I really hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I just received the most wonderful news from my uncle. Evidently he was speaking with your father the other week and he learned that you are to attend the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery. I was thrilled because my best friend Mercedes are also going to be attending. She has specifically asked me to ask you what your favorite baked goods are. I may be biased but I believe her sweets are particularly divine. If you have any questions about me, please do not hesitate to write back. I have thoroughly enjoyed my time studying magic but I simply cannot wait to train alongside you. Until we meet again.  
Your friend,  
Annette Fantine Dominic  


The letter is shorter than most of the ones that she receives these days. It’s actually amazing how long people can go on with their empty sympathies and winding proposals. She’s been staring at this one paragraph for the better part of 15 minutes because she can’t help but feel like there’s so much to it. 

She’s only met Annette a couple of times and through those encounters, they’ve exchanged maybe 50 words between them. But this letter, this bond feels more personal, more affectionate than anything she’s felt with the extended family that she’s seen once a month. 

And then there’s the way she signed it. _“Your friend”_. It’s been a long time since Ingrid’s heard someone use the word friend in reference to her. Technically she has the same friends she’s always had. She knows that fundamentally they still all love each other. In fact, there are moments when she talks to Dimitri or Sylvain or Felix and she can almost pretend like they’re all fine. 

But then there are the moments where they really can’t. Where despite the time that has passed since their world started crumbling, they’re still walking on eggshells. And to protect their eggshells all four of them have put up walls a million miles high. 

The good part about having known someone for this long is that you can’t hide your pain from them. The bad part about having known someone for this long is that you can’t hide your pain from them. For them, in particular, it’s enough to make it hard to face each other most days. 

But then here’s Annette. So blissfully unaware of the worst parts of Ingrid that she doesn’t even see the walls trying to keep people out. Ingrid has a lot of practice at pushing people away and she trained alongside the best at it. But Annette didn’t even have to sneak in. She just marched. And for some reason, Ingrid’s alarm bells aren’t ringing. 

Someone is holding a hand out and she finds herself wanting to take it. Has the time finally come to let people in again? It’s a terrifying thought but maybe not as unpleasant as it first seems. 

Ingrid cuts her hair.

(It’s been too long. She’s spent too long letting her hair go just so that she could hide beneath it. She’s tired of having to shove her bangs out of her eyes every couple minutes when she’s training. It’s time to be able to really look people in the eye again. Time to be a person who says yes to the concept of friendship. She cuts her hair and the clean edges seem to take 10 years off of the grieving widow she’d gotten used to staring at in the mirror. Finally, there’s a teenager looking back.)

Ingrid spins. She hears a panicked yell telling her to look out and so, lance in hand, she turns and just like that she’s taken another life. 

The thief, barely her age she guesses, must not have been much of a fighter. His grip on his dagger is awkward and tight and his light armor is ill-fitting. It’s how she landed the lucky blow that ended him so quickly. 

With the weight in her stomach growing, she notes the gleam of the lockpick in his left hand. He wasn’t trying to attack her, he was trying to sneak past her to reach the chest. Did he deserve to die for that? An argument could be made for yes. An argument could be made for no. She’s made both. She’s believed both. 

She’s seventeen and she’s killed before and she knows she’ll kill again, but right now this dead boy is all she can think about. 

“Are you alright?” Dedue stiffly offers her a hand up from where Ingrid realizes she’s still kneeling over this boy’s body. The boy she just killed. 

“Thank you,” she says, accepting with genuine gratitude. Something has fallen into place in her chest. The burden of this life freshly taken has pushed some of the loose pieces into place. She can’t continue to carry anger and bitterness about those that she’s lost. The web of death and tragedy grows ever larger with each passing day and if everyone continues to hate for things out of their control, soon the entire world will be consumed. They can’t have that. 

Ingrid spends the rest of the battle fighting with extreme precision. She knows her grip on her lance is too tight but she’s focused on making sure it makes contact exactly where she means to. If there’s one word she never wants associated with her style of fighting, it’s sloppy. 

If she fights precise, if she fights clean, if she fights just like the way she’s been training all of these years, maybe she can die happy. If she fights like the knight she always dreamed of becoming, then she’s still fighting for a cause she believes in. Then maybe she can deal with all of the killing. Then maybe if- no, when she falls on the battlefield she can cross in peace to the other side and be reunited with those she has lost. 

But if she lets herself fight sloppy, lets herself just swing and fight and slaughter, then the anger and apathy both festering inside her have won. She’s not sure what she’ll do if she dies like that. 

She takes to the sky for a better perspective but for once, soaring through the air doesn’t clear her lungs. She feels just as filthy and heavy as before. She barely even hears the professor compliment her on her technique. 

The last of the bandits and thieves flee after watching their leader crumple to the ground. Dimitri solemnly lowers his lance now that the task is done. Ingrid might have her own opinions on fleeing from a battlefield but she can’t help but feel grateful that no one else will have to die here today. 

Ingrid is the first one into the bath as soon as they return to the monastery. For once she forgoes the polite routine of offering Mercedes and Annette the first go at the warm water. She needs to get this blood off of her. 

She scrubs aggressively, tearing at her own skin in a truly desperate attempt to feel clean again. However, no matter how many times she rinses, she still feels blood in her hair. It’s still there, still reminding her of the weight of the consequences of her actions. 

By the time her fingers are going numb, Ingrid has to admit that perhaps this bath isn’t going to solve all of her problems. She’ll have to trek back to her room and try something else. 

Ingrid cuts her hair.

(She cuts away all of the places where she still feels the invisible traces of blood. Uneven chunks of hair fall to the ground but she doesn’t care. Her braid will hide the choppiness and even if it doesn’t, she’s never defined by her looks. What she does care about is the weight off her chest that’s falling with it. It’s impossible for her to say if it’s the weight of this boy she killed, the weight of everyone she’s killed, or the weight of being angry all of the time, but whatever it is, it’s been pressing on her chest. She needs this release. She needs this release so she can try and start again.)

Ingrid rides. She rides as determined as she’s ever ridden. She's grateful for Mercedes' arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She's grateful for Mercedes’ heart pounding against Ingrid’s back. 

Between the cold and the shock and the blood loss, Ingrid’s body and mind are currently running on two entirely different planes of existence. Her body is clinging to the reins, holding on too tightly to anything she can grip. Her mind clings equally as desperately to the edge of consciousness. She’s not in pain but somehow that strikes her as worse.

She channels her energy into using what remains of her fading vision to focus on the black horse carrying Sylvain and Annette in front of her. She doesn’t pray often but she prays that the sound over her shoulders is the horse carrying Felix and Ashe. The last thing they need right now is to be pursued. 

She hates that they’re asking these horses to carry two people at once but in the chaos, it was impossible to get three more horses and what’s important is that the six of them stick together. 

The six of them. Because no amount of cross-field screaming and pleading could stop Dimitri and Dedue from taking off in the opposite direction. And their hurried search had done nothing for finding their professor. So their nine has turned to six and the possibility of losing any more of them is terrifying. 

Between them, they have next to nothing. Minimal food, no spare clothes, nothing to treat their wounds.  
It’s easy to think that just by making it out of the battle with their lives they survived, but all Ingrid can think about is how Sylvain has to keep grabbing Annette to keep her from slipping and the way Ashe had to steady Felix when he started to sway before either of them even mounted. They’re all hurt and there’s only so much Mercedes can do. And if they don’t die to their injuries, they still can starve or freeze to death. 

With no time to lose, they stray from the road most traveled. They’re chasing daylight but the sun is too fast, and all too soon their way forward is dark and unfamiliar. They’re riding almost blind through hostile territory, angry tree branches slashing at their unflinching faces. The only counter to their ever-growing fatigue is the knowledge that as the chill in the air and the sting in their lungs grow, they’re heading in the right direction. That it means they’re heading north. 

When they finally arrive in Galatea Territory, their merry band don’t so much dismount as slide unceremoniously to the ground. They must look so pathetic that the patrolling guards didn’t see them as any kind of threat because there’s no way anyone recognized them as nobles but no one draws weapons on them. If she weren’t so tired, Ingrid would find this laughable. 

The soldiers help their exhausted crew back to the castle Someone sends for a healer. Someone else sends for the Count and Countess. It takes Ingrid a moment to remember that those are her parents. 

Count Galatea enters the room, followed quickly by his wife. Ingrid opens and shuts her mouth three times, searching hopelessly for words to put what these past days have been. It’s ultimately Sylvain that explains in an uncharacteristically flat voice that the rumors are true, the Empire has declared war on the Church, Kingdom, and Alliance. 

The Count leaves the room almost immediately. Wasting no time in inventorying and allocating precious resources. The Countess takes a moment to survey the students collapsed and sprawling on her furniture.

Despite their exhaustion, they remain remarkably stoic. Their professor is gone and they’ve misplaced the crown prince and his vassal. They barely escaped the first battle of a war with their lives. This seems like the time to cry. Not one of them sheds a tear. 

With a deep breath, Countess Galatea gathers her thoughts, “You’re all more than welcome to stay here as long as you want.” 

It’s a kind offer but Ingrid knows it’s mostly in vain. Ever since arriving Ashe has been talking with a group of knights that will hopefully take him back in the direction of his siblings. Felix and Sylvain haven’t said a word about it but based on the silent looks they’ve exchanged, Ingrid knows they’re going to slip out in the middle of the night and continue their trek north. She’s powerless to stop them so it’s better to give them her blessing. Even Annette is already mapping her route home. Only Mercedes would ever stay and even that seems unlikely. 

As she prepares to change into the first dry and clean clothes she’s been offered in ages, Ingrid goes to run her fingers through her hair, only to have them snag on dirt and ice and blood. The majority of a tree branch is still stuck in her tangles and their day has been so long that no one even bothered to tell her about it. 

She puts aside her dreams of putting on sleeping clothes for a few minutes longer. 

Ingrid cuts her hair. 

(Without having the time or resources to take the longest bath in her life, getting the remaining tree branch, matted in place and still sticky with blood in a long tedious task. Mercedes comes in and patiently helps cut the most stubborn pieces free. When she’s done Ingrid’s hair doesn’t look much shorter, but rather thinner. While she doesn’t look it, Ingrid feels like a new person. This is the first night of war.)

Ingrid burns. Even though she’s been pulled from the burning forest that she landed in, she still burns. Her ribs burn with every breath she takes. Her hands still feel the sizzle from Sylvain’s searing armor. Her heart burns from finding Sylvain motionless and unresponsive on the ground next to her. 

It’s been the better part of a year since she fought alongside any of her classmates. She should have known that a battlefield reunion with Sylvain of all people would end in anything other than both of them freefalling from their mounts off the edge of a cliff. 

Laying here in this infirmary cot, Ingrid makes out voices muttering to each other about how miraculous it is that she’s still alive. Honestly, Ingrid isn’t sure how she survived either. Faintly in the back of her swirling mind, she remembers coming too and being surrounded by fire and convinced that not a single one of her limbs could be moved in a way that would get her to safety. 

But then she saw Sylvain next to her. She stumbled her way over to find some shred of evidence that her eyes were betraying her and that he was, in fact, still alive. The idea of losing another person she loves was almost unbearable. He was breathing, but barely. If she thought she was in no state to get herself to safety, he was going to be even less help. 

One of the healers in the room takes Ingrid’s hand and the blisters that had coated it fade away. Ingrid whimpers as the magic works up her arms, an odd cold tingle mixing with the pain and adrenaline that have her so out of it. 

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” The healer soothes, continuing the methodically treat each of Ingrid’s wounds.

Ingrid wishes she had the strength to argue the comforting. She doesn’t like to consider herself weak. Always prided herself on her pain tolerance. But here she is, a writhing mess of pain and emotion when just hours ago her emotion and grit were giving her superhuman abilities. 

Somehow, goddess only knows how she dragged; not only her own injured body but Sylvain and his fifty-plus pounds of unbearably hot armor through the burning forest over to a cave where they could be rescued. 

That strength fails her now and she barely chokes back a scream as someone straightens out her left leg. 

It still feels like smoke and hair are clouding her vision and Ingrid feels her body trying desperately to get back up though she lacks the strength to do more than just wiggle. 

Eventually, someone presses a cold glass vial to her lips and she loses the battle to complete unconsciousness. 

Sometimes later the contents from the vial wear off and Ingrid opens her eyes but her vision continues to blur. A vaguely beige-ish shape enters the room and Ingrid takes her best guess “Mercedes?” 

The woman steps closer to the bed and Ingrid’s vision clears enough for her to see that it’s not Mercedes. Just a standard healer from their troops. That makes sense, Mercedes is still on the other side of the country doing her part in the war. It had been pain and delirium and wishful thinking that made her believe a familiar face had been the one to save her life. It probably wasn’t even Felix that pulled Sylvain’s unconscious body from her grip. 

“Take it easy alright? Your wounds are still healing.” 

Unable to find her voice, Ingrid just nods as the healer adjusts the blanket over her. Satisfied with Ingrid, the healer turns and walks briskly back to the door, “She’s awake but I’m not sure she’s up for any visitors.” 

A male voice that Ingrid has the distinct feeling she should be able to place, says something that she can’t make out. The healer gives a quiet but firm response. The male voice shoots back and Ingrid is able to make out the words “my sister”. Which is odd. All of her brothers should be back in Galatea territory. She took this mission in large part due to the hope that a victory here will help make their borders more secure as well. 

“Hmph. Awake, huh?” 

That gets Ingrid’s attention. Despite the ache in her ribs she sits bolt upright “Felix?” 

“Yes.” Based on what she can make out of his face, Felix doesn’t think Ingrid heard any of what he said in the hall. She’s fine leaving it that way. It’s been nearly a decade since he last called her his sister. Since he last teased him as her little brother. 

“You’re actually here?” 

“If you hadn’t tried your hardest to get yourself killed, I’d be halfway back to my territory by now. But yes, I’m here.” It might be the lighting or the fact that her mind is still stuffed with cotton, but Ingrid swears that it looks like Felix’s eyes are glimmering with tears. 

She clears her throat, “Sylvain?” 

“He’s alright. Resting. Refusing to see anyone until he can hold a cup with his own strength. Though-” Felix reaches out, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he brushes Ingrid’s singed bangs off her forehead “You would make a strikingly pathetic pair right now.” 

“You’ve looked better yourself.”

Felix, unable to come up with an excuse for the mess his hair has become, smiles a crooked half-smile, “I suppose that’s the war.” 

“I suppose.” 

“Before I go, is there anything you need?” 

“Bring me scissors?” 

Ingrid cuts her hair. 

(She really only means to cut off the burned bits. She scents of smoke and singed hair are more than a little nauseating. But she doesn’t stop there. The blades clash through her not burned bangs and then methodically work their way all the way around until for the first time in her life she’s actually cut off almost all of her hair. She’s never had properly short hair before but then again she’s never served as a general in a war before. It isn’t how she imagined being 19 going but this is her life now. She’s all in.)

Ingrid trembles. She likes to think she’s pretty good at fighting. She’s 23 and she’s been training in weaponry for more than two-thirds of her life. She’s 23 and for almost a quarter of her life, she’s been at war, trying to save and defend her country. Fending off Imperial forces has just become a fact of life for her. 

All things considered, this should be the moment she’s prepared for. They’re actually fighting for a cause to end the war. Not just trying to stay alive and see tomorrow. Actually end the war. She should be willing to do whatever it takes. Dimitri has shown her as much. Even so, her hands on her lance shake. Because the person she’s aiming it at is Dorothea. 

Ingrid has the upper ground. She’s dismounted but she still towers over Dorothea. Dorothea sits in the spot where she crumpled to the ground. She’s injured and cornered and seemingly weaponless. 

No matter how you put it, Ingrid has won. She’s won this battle. All it will take is one, maybe two strikes of her lance and she can end Dorothea for good. She doesn’t do it. Neither of them move. Dorothea sits, starring eerily calm up at Ingrid. 

It’s like they’ve been teleported to their own dimension, around them the battle rages on with no regard to the frozen scene they’re holding. Ingrid hears Ashe scream from somewhere behind her, as an enemy battalion rushes at him. Her instincts tell her to go protect him but her feet stay firmly rooted where they stand. She hears a familiar clank of metal on metal and she prays that Dedue reached Ashe in time. 

To her left, Dimitri rages, not hesitating to take out anyone who has wronged him or his country. Ingrid still doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to kill Dorothea. She doesn’t want to kill anyone if she can help it. She really doesn’t want to kill someone she spent months being in awe of. 

She knows Dorothea. She talked with her, laughed with her, even danced with her at the ball. Ingrid doesn’t think Dorothea wants to kill her either. 

Finally, Ingrid breaks free of whatever spell is holding her in place and she takes half a step forward. The tip of her lance is almost resting on Dorothea’s chest. 

Dorothea, despite her injuries, finds her voice first, “Hello, Ingrid. You look as stunning as ever. I love what you’ve done with your hair.” Her smile doesn’t waver as she takes a steadying breath, “Are you going to kill me now?” 

Ingrid hates the way Dorothea says it. No fear of death anywhere to be seen. If she begs or pleads then at least Ingrid has an excuse to let her go. Surely even Dimitri would understand that. Though perhaps it’s better not to consider if Dimitri would kill a crying former classmate. 

Ultimately though, Ingrid can’t stall forever. Dorothea isn’t going to make this choice for her. Dorothea continues to look up at Ingrid with a look in her eyes that Ingrid can only describe as trust. It’s not something she’s ever seen from an enemy before. 

Another scream as someone else falls echoes in their silence. Ingrid can’t tell which side the soldier belonged to. She’s not even sure how many sides there are. 

“Go.” She finally says, her voice low as if someone could possibly overhear them in the midst of this chaos. 

“Go?” 

“Go.” Ingrid moves the point of her lance from Dorothea’s heart and gesture’s into the woods to her right, Dorothea’s left. “ Get out of here. Now. Before I change my mind.” 

Dorothea stands and Ingrid sees that the entire side of her dress is stained with blood, more of it drips down her forehead. Ingrid’s mercy might not have even saved her life. Even if she does scramble off into the cover of the trees, there’s no promising that her wounds won't kill her or that she won’t run into someone who won’t spare her out of nostalgia. But it’s out of Ingrid’s hands now. And if she’s being honest, she really hopes Dorothea makes it. 

“Ingrid?” Dorothea says before she completely disappears. 

“Hm?” 

Something small and shiny flies through the air and Ingrid fumbles her lance in order to catch it. It’s a bracelet. A silver band. Just simple enough that she might actually wear it.  
“For everything,” Dorothea says and vanishes like a dream. 

Ingrid doesn’t look at the bracelet any closer until she’s back in her room in the monastery. It could be for anyone but there’s just something about its simplistic yet elegant cut that makes Ingrid feel like this is a gift meant for her and not just whoever spared Dorothea on the battlefield. 

“Ingrid?” It’s Sylvain, he leans against her door frame but there’s nothing casual about his body language. “About what happened today with Dorothea-” 

The name threatens to reopen the wound up Ingrid’s side “I lost her.” She says firmly. “I looked away and I lost her. That’s all it was. You can tell His Highness as much.”  
Ingrid cuts her hair. 

(She doesn’t have a lot of hair to cut. She’s kept it short for the last few years of war. What isn’t short she keeps out of her way in a braid. But just because she’s happy with her hair at the length it is doesn’t mean there isn’t enough for her to cut off a small chunk. It’s more than enough to fill her grandmother’s locket. The locket that ever since Glenn’s death she’s assumed would always remain empty and abandoned. She tucks her hair in the locket and she tucks the locket in an envelope and she tucks the envelope in her desk. She hopes than one day she’ll live to send it to a Songstress who lives to receive it.)

Ingrid packs. It’s not hard. It’s not like she’s ever kept much stuff in her room in the monastery. Her collection of books, used as a distraction from the horrors rather than for studying, the only thing weighing in at any substantial amount.

It’s hard to believe that she’s going home. It’s hard to believe that they’ve really just won a war. That Dimitri is King and things are, as she believes they should be. She’s returning home and if her courage doesn’t fail her, she’s soon to be leaving home for the foreseeable future. 

“Ingrid wait!”

Ingrid spins around. The war is over. The fighting is done. But still, a part of her remains uneasy. It’s just waiting for a blindside attack. Waiting for their enemies to launch one last desperate attack now that they’ve lowered their guard. Perhaps this is what years of war does to a person. 

Her fears are for nothing as she finds Ashe in her doorway. He’s anxious but unharmed and a far cry from frantic. “Ashe. What’s wrong?” 

Ashe fidgets, his eyes darting around the room before landing on Ingrid’s pack bags, “I was at the stables and saw that Sophia was getting Lucina ready and I was worried I’d missed you. You’re not leaving, are you? You’re not giving up?”

Ingrid still remembers Ashe’s face when she told him that she could never live her dream of becoming a knight. Remembers how he pleaded with her, the first time she ever saw him act like an actual child and not a teenager forced to grow up way too fast. 

“I am leaving. But I’m not giving up. I’m going home to inform my family that I’m leaving my duties with House Galatea to serve in the king’s guard.” 

“I’ll come with you.” It’s a statement rather than question and it’s only due to Ashe’s natural charm that it isn’t condescending or irritating. Ashe’s smile is bright and mature. He already looks like a knight. 

Gentle warmth blossoms in Ingrid’s chest, “You better get packing then.” 

With his eyes bright, Ashe takes off down the hall with his footsteps as silent as he’s always been and Ingrid turns back to what remains of her belongings. She’d been prepared to ride this road alone and now suddenly she finds that she doesn't have to. It’s a foreign feeling, finding that there’s an easier way that doesn’t compromise her integrity as a knight. She thinks, perhaps she can get used to it. 

“Ingrid.” Ingrid startles. Her room has always been her sanctuary. Her place away from the three people she loves about all things but even now continue to make her life harder. She’s never been one for visitors. And yet, here is her second one in less than half an hour. 

Apparently the war ending has not brought just peace but also a new level of popularity for her. 

She grits her teeth, “I’ll be out in a few minutes!” 

The door creaks open and a single broad shoulder peeks through, “Oh, I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” 

Ingrid mentally slaps herself. Of course the time she lets her temper get the better of her is the time that the newly crowned king decides to stop by,

“Your Majesty!” She sweeps quickly into a bow which Dimitri only acknowledges with a slight raise of his eyebrow. “-Dimitri,” Ingrid relents and the King’s facade cracks and Dimitri’s affectionate smile shines through. Oh how she’s missed that. “I didn’t know you were back at the monastery.” 

“Taking care of some loose ends. I hear you’re heading out shortly yourself.” 

Ingrid resists the urge to chuckle. Word spreads fast. It could be the fault of Ashe or Sophia the stablegirl but she suspects it’s more a lucky rumor that happens to be true, “I have a few loose ends of my own to tie up.” 

Dimitri bows his head, a nervous tick that he’s had since his days of convincing the world he was just a serious and straight-laced prince. “I’ll see you in the Capital after that?”

Ingrid’s breath catches. This is what she’s been training and waiting for her entire life. To have a king that she believes in, believes in her. This is the man that Glenn died for. This is the man that her family fought for even when they thought him dead. This is the man who saved Faerghus. And he wants her on his side. He wants her with him. There are no words to describe how right this is. All she can come up with is, “Of course.” 

Dimitri smiles a relieved, grateful smile but it soon cracks into a worried expression. His voice goes deep, as serious as he’s ever been, “Ingrid, I don’t ever want to you feel like I’m pressuring you to leave your family. _No one_ owes me their service.” 

She holds out a hand and a knot in her stomach unties when Dimitri takes it instead of flinching away. 

“Dimitri, how long have you known me? Known my hopes and dreams? You know I want this. It’s because of you that I get to actually live it. Because of you, my brothers and countless like them are getting a fair chance in the world. Once the opportunity came up, I never hesitated.” 

They both let their tears silently spill. There’s still a lot that needs to be said between them but that’s all better saved for a later day. Right now all they need is the knowledge that still have faith in each other. 

Their tears dry and Dimitri pulls his hand away, “I’ll be getting out of your way then. I’ll see you soon Ingrid.” 

Ingrid bows once more as Dimitri exits her room. Just a few minutes later there are only two items she hasn’t packed.  
Ingrid cuts her hair. 

(She takes her time because finally, she doesn’t constantly have to be wondering how many minutes she has left. She takes her time because she wants this to be right. She knows that it will never be perfect. She’ll never get the sides to be perfectly even. She’ll never keep her hair the perfect length. She’s never going to be perfect. But that’s alright. That’s part of the fun of life. It’s messy and imperfect. The room to grow is what keeps it from getting boring. What matters though, is right now she looks in the mirror, she looks at herself, she looks at her hair and she likes it. She loves the person back at her. She’s ready to start this new chapter.)

**Author's Note:**

> I did not expect to get this attached to Lady Galatea. That is all. I just expected her to be a minor character that would just come and go through my head but now I kind of want to be her when I grow up.


End file.
